


London Dreams of Sherlock Holmes

by f_m_r_l



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-09
Updated: 2012-07-09
Packaged: 2017-11-09 11:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/f_m_r_l/pseuds/f_m_r_l
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In many different ways, London dreams of Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	London Dreams of Sherlock Holmes

A huddle of street urchins dream the contented dreams of those who understand the merit of full bellies and have managed to achieve them. They dream of information gathered and hidden, of passing with deliberate invisibility through the crowd instead of the mere casual invisibility of those beneath notice, of doing something important with skill. They dream of words of praise more rare than the coins with which they are paid, and as valuable. They dream of worth in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

•♦•♦•

The night is cold and the bed is hard. But prisoner number 51068 has managed to fall asleep despite that, despite even the fantasies of revenge that have followed him into his dreams. He dreams of knives, blood, and viciousness. He dreams of horror, pain, and despair etched across the features of Sherlock Holmes.

•♦•♦•

The brass band gives way to one great man after another, all making speeches about valor, bravery, and keen insight. Lestrade dreams that he is at an award ceremony, about to be presented with one of the highest honors he could hope to achieve. But when the crucial moment comes, the speaker calls the name of Sherlock Holmes. 

•♦•♦•♦•♦•♦•

There is another might-have-been.

•♦•♦•♦•♦•♦•

Gladstone's feet are twitching and little half barks escape him. He dreams in scents, in motions, and when his scurrying feet catch up with dream rabbits, the rabbits turn into little meat pies, pies offered by the short, dark, strong smelling human who gives him tasty things. Gladstone drools and dreams of Sherlock Holmes.

•♦•♦•

Two figures lie entwined on a bed, so deeply entangled in each other that one would be hard pressed to discern any boundaries marking them as more than one being. The man dreams of words, words he can't write because his pen suddenly runs out of ink, words he can't force past his lips, words that he can almost string together in his mind but that fluidly elude his grasp. In Watson's dreams Mary puts her fingers against his lips.

"Shh, you don't have to say it. He knows."

Mary dreams she is a music hall pirate on the high seas of old, their mad captain steering them into constant adventure, their first mate captured from the British Navy but so madly in love he could never leave were he given a chance. They fence along the yard, dancing in a swirl of lace and braid and velvet and golden buttons and flashing teeth.

Dr. John and Mary Watson dream of Sherlock Holmes.

•♦•♦•

She makes her way through a labyrinth that is also a palace — what palace, she cannot tell, as it seems to have the furnishings, architecture, and decor of any number of palaces, section by section or jumbled all together by turn. Perhaps it is every European palace she ever visited. Wherever it is, she knows every corner, every choice, every panel that can be pressed to make a hidden door open or close, every bookend that can be slid to make a room revolve. She is making her way towards the jewels. There is a man following her and she is careful to always let him catch a glimpse here, find a trace there. She doesn't know if she is leading him to the jewels or mocking him on her way to steal them. Irene tosses in the bed of her expensive London suite and dreams of Sherlock Holmes.

•♦•♦•♦•♦•♦•

There is another might-have-been.

•♦•♦•♦•♦•♦•

Amidst a clutter of richly colored silk pillows, lamps with stained glass shades, and thick carpets in a room decorated with fans across the walls, a woman dreams of an Art Nouveau knight in shining armor, all elegance of line and beauty. She rides pulled up behind him, the wide-eyed princess she has always been in some corner of her imagination. Mrs. Hudson holds her pillow close as she dreams of Sherlock Holmes.

•♦•♦•

In her dreams she knows she was a mouse, but now she has transformed into a lion. She can't remember why she wanted to be a lion. The rest of her dream is spent chasing a unicorn around London while passers-by pelt them with baked goods. The unicorn remains beautiful and coolly above it all; he somehow reminds Molly of Sherlock Holmes.

•♦•♦•

He dreams that he inhales triumph deep into his lungs, rubs it across his skin, snorts it, injects it, rolls in it like catnip. When it hits, he feels like a god, invincible. But he _needs_ the next hit, right away, right now. In his sleep, Sherlock rolls, thrashes, scratches at his arms and dreams of Sherlock Holmes.

•♦•♦•♦•♦•♦•

There are others.

•♦•♦•♦•♦•♦•

The doctor sighs, defeated. He has written more serious fiction, he has written characters he's liked better, he knows he can be a better writer than this and would be if he could just write something else. The public wills otherwise. He will start writing another adventure tomorrow. As he drifts off into slumber, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle dreams of Sherlock Holmes.

•♦•♦•

The chronology twists and winds its way through his dreams, sometimes snapping to one standard, sometimes to another interpretation, sometimes dashing to the tile floor in a scattering of dates and disjoint numerals. Something finally pulls together, falls into place — he can be the first person to make this all work! That sort of thing can happen in dreams. The man smiles as he dreams of Sherlock Holmes.

•♦•♦•

A student snoozes, curled upon the sofa while the DVD she bought repeats. In her dreams the chase never ends, across rooftops, down alleys, dodging through buildings and cutting across gardens. She is right behind John, chasing after Sherlock Holmes. 

•♦•♦•♦•♦•♦•

Across the is and might-have-beens, London dreams of Sherlock Holmes.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt at [the Sherlock Holmes Kinkmeme <http://community.livejournal.com/shkinkmeme/6858.html?thread=16811466#t16811466>](http://community.livejournal.com/shkinkmeme/6858.html?thread=16811466#t16811466).
> 
> With encouragement by [foes of reality](http://foes-of-reality.livejournal.com/).


End file.
